


Drive it Like You Stole it

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara believes in the power of memes, Gen, POV Chara, Panic Attacks, Sans has slapstick humor, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, chara lives, disassocation, frisk and chara tag team the world, gets all sad like dadgore, haha post post pacifist end, imperfect pacifist, no one dads like dadgore, others don't, post-pacifist end, tries to be rad but still is just sad like dadgore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: “We can do it, though,” They murmur softly, so soft you almost don’t hear it. “If we work together, then anything is possible, right?”Humans are selfish. Frisk may be the most selfish person you’ve ever met; and they need you.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheElusiveOllie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveOllie/gifts).



> For my dude, Zero. We talked through a concept vaguely akin to this, and today, I wanted to make sure you got it.
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to Lint, who literally sat there reading over my shoulder as I typed.

* * *

 

 

They drag you along with a grip on your wrist that’s probably leaving bruises. And at first, you’re shocked. Shocked into compliance and sensory overload as you stumble along on your own knobby knees and eventually trip up to clip your own sharp chin on the ground. When you stumble, they slow, and when you go down, they go down. The one thing Frisk refuses to do is let go.

There’s just too much going on to scream.

Focusing your eyes is a trial of pain and tears, but you can make out the road beneath you, until you remember that blinking is a thing bodies need to do, and take the time to blink. Something that Frisk had always, always handled; a subconscious act of the body, like breathing, and your own chest is tight and faltering, winded after just a few rooms. Everything has a purple tinge to it; a plaque on the wall. A floor of spikes that has a specific, well known path to follow if one wishes to pass over safely.

Flowey should have been somewhere around here, you realize. You whip your head around, a strangled noise escaping you, but Frisk just shakes their head, lips thin. There’s a tightness to their expression you don’t understand, and you feel- like an idiot, because you decided this. You decided not to know what they were conversing about, one more time, in that place. You didn’t want to know. It feels like asking for something a little too late now, yet the idea rattles about your head with enough force to leave it pounding. How. How. How.

Where is Asriel? They were just talking to Asriel.

They drag you through the RUINS and into her house, empty and clean and lovely as ever. The smell of pies has long since settled into the space, and where the scent used to bring some sense of calm clarity to it, you just feel all the more dizzy. Attempts to deviate from the intended path- head off towards the bedroom, curl up in the space beneath the bed and breathe in years of dust- fail utterly, and you remain helpless in the wake of other child’s (yours? both?) determination.

And once you’re out of the RUINS, monsters become a more familiar trend. Calling out to you both as you walk- or calling out to Frisk, and including you because it’s the polite thing to do.

That’s about the time you start cursing.

Normally, you’d rather be a little more verbose. A firm believer in the concept that slurs simply quantify stupidity if the situation is tense, and the only retort available in your mind’s repertoire something inane and overly impersonal, flung just to hurt. But you still spit the words like they’ll actually strike something, a harder chord than your nails digging into Frisk’s wrist, gouging at the skin. You get nothing from them but silence and that grim look, and that scares you, because it hasn’t been silent in a very long time, and for the first time in an equally lengthy stretch of non-linear reality, you can hear yourself think.

Most of what you’re thinking makes no sense. Most of what you're thinking flies into your mind and straight back out again, blasted away by shivering cold and voices that are too loud, streets packed with people and a warm hand tight about your wrist. You’re panicked, and you’re disorientated, and you’re trying to reason with yourself, and tell yourself that’s the problem, except knowing the issue is far different from knowing how to deal with it.

Frisk makes you get on the boat and you’re certain they’re just a few seconds from sitting on top of you, if that’s what it takes to get you to stay in it. So you sit, and you stew, and you feel the hard wood digging into the small of your back as you tell them over and over about how much you hate them, as you ask questions that go utterly ignored.

How, you ask them, over and over again. How did you do it? And Frisk is not like you when it comes to their responses. They are not overly passionate, they do not burst into manic laughter and smiles that stretch like knives, or morbid witticisms that never actually make the situation better. Frisk, somewhere in your journey together, taught you just how terrifying silence could be. You had thought you’d gotten rather good at it, too, near the end. But as with everything else, they’re just better at it than you are.

Frisk is silent, and you are terrified. That’s what makes you keep your head so high, and why you ignore the way their thumb soothes over your wrist in response to the way your entire body shakes. You almost trip right into the water when it comes time to disembark, and the idea of falling into that icy cold with no knowledge of how to swim leaves you with the stark thought of ‘ _how good_ ’, just before you’re yanked to safety, and the journey begins anew.  Up stairs and escalators, past people you know well. People you know as well as Frisk does, who don’t know you.

They look, as monsters are often want to do, and your voice once again traps itself in your throat as you duck your head and stare at the locks of hair hanging down across your cheeks, curving in towards your chin. The muted bubble of terror continues building; stop. You just want this to stop.

If they’re recognizing your nonverbal indications of fear, Frisk makes no sign of it, not anymore. You must have lost circulation a while back, the power walk they’re forcing you into enough to send pins and needles through your shins as lack of oxygen digs sharply into your side. _Look at me,_ you want to say. _Look. I’m hyperventilating. I’m going to faint. Shall I simply drop down and die, now?_

You always did think humans were selfish. Frisk is doing an excellent job of that as they lead you ever closer to your doom, something inside you snapping apart when you step foot into **T** hat **C** orridor.

“No- Frisk, listen to me-” The words are about as useless as the shift and slide of your feet, unwilling to step forward. “I don’t want this- will you just _listen to me-_!”

Everything in here echoes. Everything. You hate the sound, and the humming vibration of white-tinged-blue magic is your imagination, has to be, but it’s there all the same. One hour after coming back to yourself, and the first thing you do to save yourself from what this selfish brat is trying is haphazardly flinging out your free hand, nails pressing against the surface of a pillar and scratching across it uselessly. You struggle. Nothing happens.

You struggle again, hand catching properly this time, and Frisk falters before they pull you away with a hard yank. Your arms feel ready to come out of their sockets.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Are you listening to me?! _I don’t want this!_ ” You yell, and you scream, and you cry, because you’ve tried so hard to succeed at anything but this, this- existence, existing, and here you are anyway.

So you scream, and you keep screaming, and you scream as fingernails dig into your flesh, and you scream until Frisk headbutts you so hard you see stars, shocked and vaguely indignant as you both go sprawling out onto the ground. Again.

They taught you

They taught you that silence is the most terrifying sound of all. So it’s a funny thing, how quickly you change your mind when you realize that they’re rubbing snot on your sweater. Bawling their eyes out with these coarse, ugly hiccups that are so distinctly beyond the composure they’ve shown throughout all of this, even when they died. And died. And died.

Why they’re allowed to cry, when you aren’t allowed to scream, is beyond you. It’s hardly fair in the grand scheme of things, that they be selfish enough to drag you this far, and they’re the only one with their emotions fully on display. They’re the one with their hands fisted over your chest, shoulders heaving with the exertion of it all.

Humans are so fucking selfish.

 

You twitch beneath them, breathing as heavy as it’s been this entire time. Maybe if you tell them to get off- maybe if you scream and scream and scream, because this much contact has your entire body in a whiplash mode of bracing itself with tension, and going limp as a doll- they’ll headbutt you again. Sounds about right. If you can get them to hit just right, they’ll shatter your nose and send bones shooting into your brain.

And then they’ll fix it like they always do, and you’ll be right back here anyway. Because humans are so _fucking Selfish._

“Why are you doing this?” You ask them weakly. Your back aches from hitting the floor, your shins feel splintered and broken. The pain in your side is slowly beginning to ease up, however- and isn’t this a great place to be feeling all of those things? Such a wonderful addition to the slew of memories you both have, the ones you shared like you aren’t sharing this moment, and they still haven’t told you _how._

The little snot has the audacity to open their mouth eventually, and their words are unwelcome and wrong. So, utterly wrong.

“I need you.”

You burst out laughing as Frisk sniffs sitting up and looking down at you woefully, lips pulled into a miserable frown. Good, great. Where was that look when Toriel burnt them alive? How about when Undyne shoved a spear through their stomach- for the fiftieth odd time? It’s ridiculous, it’s horrible- it’s true evil, the fact that you, having done Nothing to them, are the one face to face with this.

How dare they say that to you. How dare they look at you with that face. You’ve been a great Partner. Haven’t you? They can’t blame everything terrible on yourself; they were just as willing. Just as intent on causing harm. You’ve done your part, and you followed them to the utmost.

“Please. I need you. Don’t make me do this alone.” Perhaps that is the problem. You were just too good. Lifting your head, you go limp, just for the satisfaction that comes with the sting of hitting the tiles once more. Let your head lull to the side and refuse to meet their gaze, because they’re a human, and horrible, and selfish.

Couldn’t they have chosen something else to be selfish about? Just one thing. Anything at all. They couldn’t have been a prick to Papyrus when he thought it was okay to date a ten-year-old, couldn’t have left that one kid for dead when the only difference between them and certain death was a bridge and a few feet from clanking armour. No. The only time they’re selfish is when it makes no sense; when you could have been there _anyway, you would have. You could have been just fine with you and them, and no one the wiser about it all._

I need you, Frisk says, but what they mean is; I need you to sacrifice everything you ever thought you wanted.

They want you to come back like it’s no big deal, like you’re fine with it, and it’s the most selfish thing you’ve ever heard. Except you can wrack your brain and think across timeline after timeline, and they’ve never, ever, asked anyone for anything.

It’s just you, Chara.

“Please.” They say again, and their voice is so soft and steady, and nothing like they’ve ever projected upon anything at all.

“I hate you.” You tell them in response.

You’re pretty sure you do. You’re fairly certain that they understand what they’re doing right now, and that it is nigh unforgivable. And yet when you get yourselves to your feet, they still take your hand, and tow you down the rest of the corridor.

You go without further complaint.

You also want to die. Walking through the golden flowers makes bile rise to the back of your throat, as you do your best not to breathe in the heady scent. There’s voices ahead, all recognisable. You almost turn right on your heel again.

Please, Frisk mouths at you, and you hate them. You hate the fact that they step forward without a single qualm, and that your clasped hands mean you have to step with them. Through the door, into the light. There’s a choked sound as the voices quieten, and you don’t have to look to know who it’s coming from.

Four people in the room look to you with absolutely zero recognition. Out of all of them, the only one you can look in the eyes is Papyrus, and you focus on him first, using the excuse that the unknown elements are the most dangerous. Like that’s ever been the truth, at any point in your entire life, or un-life.

He looks quizzical, but friendly; he’s the kind of person who feeds pet rocks with sprinkles and offers spaghetti to practically anything that moves, and your half tempted to introduce yourself to him as another pet rock, and live out the rest of your days underneath his coffee table, eating chocolate sprinkles and tearing apart Sans’ slippers whenever they’re unfortunate enough to be in reach. It’s the type of pathetic, unrealistic pipe dream that explodes right in front of you within seconds, but you allow yourself that time to daydream, to pretend that’s all that needs to happen to you in this moment, right up until Toriel steps into your view with tears streaming down the fur of her cheeks.

“Chara?”

And everyone’s eyes are on you. There aren’t enough cracks in the floor to eat you up, isn’t enough space in the entire Underground to hide. She keeps sweeping towards you with Asgore on her heels, big and familiar and mockingly safe, as if you don’t already know how utterly fake that is. You stammer and trip up on every word you could possibly say until she’s right there, until she’s reaching out with shaking paws and hefting you up into her arms without asking, though she had always, always asked before, and shaky stammers turns into bewildered, nonplussed laughter that gets smothered in her chest as she holds you tight and she cries, and you cry, and Asgore cries.

Frisk stands back until Toriel reaches for them too, and you can only just make out the slight redness in their eyes that belies their current composure as they’re dragged straight back into the thick of this terrible, broken family they’ve created, and even then, it’s only because you’re being held so close together that you’re practically glued to each other’s sides.

Lord, if humans aren’t the most miserable, selfish things.

 

You hate them so much.

 

* * *

 

Introductions are brief, filtered through by a haze of false politeness that you suppose is the rest of your life, now. You offer no touch of recognition to any of them, shaking hands with the swiftness of one unwilling to maintain anything close to actual contact, and you look every single one of them in the eye. Undyne, Papyrus, Sans.

Alphys. Funny, how she doesn’t seem as keen to meet yours. Funny, that she thinks it’s your sins she’s avoiding, when you have so many things you could dish right back. Who would win out in garnering the most sympathy; the kid who killed themself, or the scientist who brought the crown prince back to life for an eternal, tortured existence?

Funny, how she can’t seem to meet yours.

You look them all in the eye as Asgore rests a hand on your shoulder, until the contact becomes so unbelievably prominent you either need to duck away, or scream. You choose the former, dodging back to Frisk’s side and levelling them with an entirely different look than you’d just given everyone else, something just as neutral, but accusing. You hope they get the message. You hope they realize that this is all their fault.

When you walk out into the sunlight, the only hand you hold is Frisk’s. Wearily, you regard the way Toriel hovers almost anxiously at your side, paw twitching forwards now and again; to fix your collar, to smooth down your hair, but she’s aware enough that your personal boundaries have been encroached too much in recent times, and thus, she contents herself with those fleeting pieces of contact.

And you hold Frisk’s hand, lest you give into the urge to slap her.

The closer you get to the opening, the more you have to squint. The more that pumping organ in your chest sinks, and your breathing is easily the most laboured out of the entire group. You keep your head up high anyway, paste a smile on your face, and pretend that you haven’t just recently been dragged across the entire Underground. Pretend that you aren’t one shaking footstep away from collapse.

Mostly, you just pretend that you deserve to be here, somehow. That everyone around you deserves to be here as well. You don’t, and they don’t, but that’s the point of pretending, isn’t it? It’s pretend.

Your first thought upon stepping out of the cave’s opening (when your streaming eyes have had enough time to adjust to the glare of a sun you haven’t seen in you don’t know how many years- how Toriel and Asgore are coping with this is beyond you) is that there’s a cliff edge right in front of you. It looks great, wonderful- like a bolt from the blue, a fitting end to the sordid tale of the Doubly Fallen Child.

You could even take Frisk down with you. Everyone would love that. They’re all so busy talking amongst themselves, most wouldn’t even notice.

“Is it not beautiful, Chara?” Asgore murmurs; not next to you, but behind. The hair at the back of your neck crawls, alongside every inch of your skin, and you stare carefully out at the sunset, still considering what it would be like, if you relived the experience of dropping like a stone. “It has taken far too long, but… you will grow in the sunlight. You and Frisk both.”

Your favourite Disney character once retorted to talk of their future with the line, ‘ _yeah? What future_ ’? If he hadn’t changed his tune at the end like every piss poor Disney hopeful, maybe you would have said that, yourself.

Someone is looking at you. Possibly everyone.

You keep your eyes on the sunset, response careful.

“Yes. Beautiful.”

Frisk squeezes your hand so hard, you’re convinced they’re just trying to see how many bruises they can give you. You chance a look in their direction (hardly a glare) and note Sans off at the side, looking at you.

You don’t like the expression on his face. Rather than allow yourself to be caught out, you look to everyone in turn, noting the rapture and delight on all their faces. Toriel and Asgore- they aren’t even looking at the sun. The silence is unbearable.

“And what are you going to do with this shining new future?” Toriel smiles down at you, and you wonder if, perhaps, you will stumble upon the hole you first tripped into whilst descending.

“Chara is correct; we should really think about what comes next.” She urges gently, and Asgore hums, finally lifting his gaze from you. Finally.

“Oh, right,” As gracious as ever. He goes on to give a speech you only half pay attention to, mostly out of the fear that, if you’d concentrated harder, you’d burst into laughter. It would be a shame, to ruin what Frisk has condemned you to so quickly. If you start now, you’re sure you’ll never be able to stop. “-Frisk, I have something to ask of you. Will you act as our ambassador to the humans?”

“Are you kidding me?” It comes out before you can stop it, smile slipping from your face, and his face, and everyone’s face- a scratched record as the sunset stops being quite so delightfully _insipid._

“I don’t think anyone’s trying to get your goat here, kid.” Sans helpfully pitches into the silence, at which you can only aim a look his way. Level, calm, and not remotely indicative of the broiling emotions running under the surface. Frisk taps the back of your hand, murmuring your name quietly, but- no. No, you’ve already ruined this, haven’t you? So why not just a little more?

“I do not believe I was talking to you,” You barely catch the returning shrug, focus upon Asgore, this- idiot man-child who thinks that he can do this, that he has any right to do this. “But if I must, I will ask again; are you fu-”

“I accept.”

Frisk’s words cut through your own, and whilst there is some, small relief that comes with no longer being the centre of attention, it’s less relieving when the new centre has seemingly lost all intelligence.

“WOWIE, I GUESS THAT SETTLES IT!” Papyrus chimes in, vigour renewed. Another bumbling idiot, ready to sweep your indiscretions under the rug. “FRISK SHALL BE THE BEST AMBASSADOR! AND I WILL BE THE BEST MASCOT!”

You could leave it there. You could take it all with a smile, and a laugh. This is your life; this is the rest of eternity before oblivion, and you will have to smile and smile like nothing has ever happened. You will smile as if there is nothing missing, and smile like you don’t hate everything and everyone around you. You’re going to smile, because Frisk is selfish.

You should really leave it there, now that Frisk has taken it upon themself to make their own life harder. You can drag back the smile; that part is easy. What is so much harder is learning when it’s best to stop.

“I’d like to speak with our ambassador alone, for a moment.” It’s not a request. By the time you’ve finished speaking, you’re already dragging them away; not far, far away, but distanced from everyone as you feel they’re willing to let you go, not out of sight, not out of mind. But if you put your back to them, and they can’t hear what you’re saying, then it’s perfectly alright, isn’t it? Perfectly alright when your cheeks hurt from how wide that smile is, and you hope that Frisk enjoys having their own circulation cut in turn.

“Are you really that stupid?” Unfair. It’s so unfair, _why are you doing this_ , a part of your mind wails, beats tiny fists against the inside of your skull, and you don’t understand. You can’t understand, why they continue to be so selfish and selfless all at once, because where they go, you go. What they do, you will also do. Because they need you.

This is now your lot in life. You are not allowed to stand idle.

 _This is unfair,_ whispers a part of your mind, but which aspect of it, you’ve already lost. You can’t stand the way they look at you, like they know best. Like they’re so much older than you could ever hope to be.

“Accepting Asgore’s offer.” Frisk tells you stoically, the slightest pull of their shoulders into a shrug. Their jeans are two toned; everything below the thighs caked in crusty mud from Waterfall and the garbage dump. One of their sleeves is torn at the elbow, fabric flapping open uselessly. There are twigs and flower petals tangled in their hair.

The ambassador. Giggles burst outwards, frothing up from your throat like something possessed.

“You’re not an ambassador.” Your disdain comes across in the delightful pitch of your tone; this is funny! This is so funny! “You’re not even house trained. Do you think that a child bumping elbows with the president is going to help, Frisk? Because that is what you’re agreeing to. You’re agreeing to be- to be a political puppet. A face to put on the newspapers. Was the glamor of potentially seeing your mugshot on a milk carton not enough?”

“It’s the right thing to do.” They tell you, and oh. If you headbutt them, would it be your turn to allow yourself emotions? At the very least, it seems they’re finally willing to answer some questions.

“Of course. Pray, do tell me how this is in any way _the right thing to do?_ ” Your shoulders shake; presumably from more laughter, but you could never be sure. And Frisk, to their credit, remains calm in the face of all of it. You’re quite certain you’ll never see another speck of negativity cross their face again.

“Because everything will be better this way.” They explain, and you almost write that off. You almost do, but your amusement dies away into the wind, and Frisk meets your gaze all too willingly, all too direct. Waiting for you to grasp the bigger picture.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do.”

“No, you _can’t._ ”

“Chara,” They say your name so gently, like they’re dispensing unfortunate news. “I know.”

It’s the only thing said between you for quite a while. A breeze has picked up, hair flicking against your neck. Your cheeks sting, and that’s probably due to the external chill, rather than the internal.

 _How many times have we been here like this,_ you want to say. The words never escape you. Perhaps, you simply do not want to know.  

Because Frisk, in your long, painful expanse of memory, has only ever been selfish the once. And it is unforgivable, and you hate them for it. You hate them with every fibre of your being, but accepting that they are also capable of something like that-

You thread your fingers together, and resolve never to think about this again. If you do, then you will never be capable of allowing them their one, selfish act. Ever.

And if you’re incapable of that, then you’ll also have to accept that any right you have to considering an act completely reprehensible can be torn away from you at any moment. You can pick the demons that keep you up at night. You will never think of this again.

“I hate you.” A whisper, and to their credit, they at least have the good grace to stop meeting your gaze.

“I know.” Even if they still aren’t letting go.

You wonder what kind of picture the two of you make; two children standing at the top of a mountain in the sunset. You’ve never gotten to see the two of you side by side, but you know that there are similarities in clothing, if not features. You don’t believe you’re perfectly identical, but it’s always possible that you two look alike enough. Similar in feature and in the secrets you’ve built, ready to take to your graves.

You both stand at the top of the very same mountain you intended to disappear on, and no one else will ever know that, will they? Or… one person does.

 

He’s not here.

 

You take your own time to collect yourself, and Frisk allows you that, nodding at your confusion when you turn, and only two others remain. Toriel waits just outside of hearing distance, with Asgore not far behind. They both seem equally glad upon your approach, smiling kindly down at you in particular, and you wonder how long it will be before that sense of undeserved favouritism fades.

“Greetings, my children.” The queen says to you, and you put a smile back on your face. “The others have decided to go ahead of us. We should catch up with them, should we not?”

You wonder if Frisk’s great plan for the future also included dealing with humanity's response when their very first exposure to humanity is a fish, a lizard, and two skeletons. Out of spite, you certainly hope not.

“This sounds like a grand plan; perhaps Chara and I should catch up with them.” Asgore supplies helpfully, and though Toriel’s gaze is frosty, there’s a reluctant sense of silent communication, more akin to the warmth of their kitchen than the bleak mountaintop.

You imagine that this is one of the very last times you will see it, considering that you are, and continue to be, the catalyst of their ruined marriage. Existence is a wonderful thing.

“I would appreciate if you would do so; I must speak with Frisk for a moment.” Toriel aims her smile their way, but her paw reaches for you. It graces your cheek with the loving caress of a parent, and you take it unflinchingly, ignoring the rapid twitch of your pulse. “Later… we shall speak more, my love. There are many things we must discuss.”

You would bet your life on what those things would be, if the quick glance in Asgore’s direction is any indication. He looks equally sobered, gesturing towards you politely, holding out his hand. It is likely expected that you take it, and before- before, you would have taken it, too afraid to bring down his wrath. Now, you can ignore it, assured by the thought that he’ll simply chalk it up to you being yourself. Being Chara.

The back of his cape still brushes against your ankle when you walk. He is as close as he thinks you’ll allow him, and you quicken your pace just the slightest.

This may be your last opportunity to be as far from Frisk as possible. You’re more than willing to consider every opportunity you have on the way down, to escape them forever. It’s a true pity that all of them are futile.

 

* * *

 

This is a nightmare, and you are never waking up. After a good, long silence between you and the king, dispersed by his polite questions and your clipped answers (“You must be very excited.” “Yes” “It has been a very long time.” “I suppose.” “It is a miracle that you have come back to us, child.” “I don’t know.”) Frisk and Toriel join you, the sky darkening to the point where the ground is difficult to see, and the glow of lights from the town become a steadily growing aspect to your line of sight. Frisk seems content to be carried through this trial; you refuse. You refuse, legs and lungs and beings like led, as you all head towards the lights.

There are so many reporters. So many reporters. So many humans. It’s both a blessing and a curse when they notice your small group, because the flash of cameras blinds you as effectively as the sun had, and the clamour of voices trying to be heard becomes a dull roar that you are not required to respond to.

Frisk is in the thick of it almost immediately. They allow the reporters to take photographs as they hug Toriel, as they dash over to Sans and make a few jokes. As Papyrus scoops them onto his shoulders and points out various, normal aspects of human life with increasing excitement, and where Frisk goes, you also go. You follow them to the utmost, back ramrod straight and smile painfully affixed, the absence of a weapon in your hand palpable. This is your life now, following them despite any reservations, because they need you.

This is your life now.

When the lights and the noise become too much, you hide your face in Toriel’s skirt, and she pets your hair. The shutter clicks in the area have been incessant, but you’re certain you’ll see images of this moment for the rest of your life, as you become yet another piece of history for the ages.

You would have thought the military would be faster, but they aren’t. It’s the county police who handle most of the situation, who steer you all away and bring you to quiet rooms to talk, who advise that the president is on his way and discussions will be forthcoming. It’s the first time Frisk is introduced as the ambassador of humans and monsters, and despite yourself, you relate to the man with the bushy moustache who has to hide a disbelieving snort with his hand. He’s less amused by the response Undyne has, placing a hand on Frisk’s shoulder and levelling him with a look that would make flowers shrivel. At the least, you suppose, they have something behind them that humans will understand. Brute force and scare tactics.

The other cop is less encouraging. He’s kept a straight face through everything; a hard ass country bumpkin who probably thinks he’s bigger than he actually is, and your focus as he stands before you all is on the gun at his hip, the hand that never strays too far from it. A casual sweep of the room, and you know you aren’t the only one who’s picked that up; Sans, slouched down in a chair and looking nothing but the image of repose, has a bead on it from under slitted eye sockets. You’d like to say that isn’t a relief, but it is.

He gestures to you when your name isn’t forthcoming, “What about this one?”

The man- the human, male, man. _Hu-man_ \- looks towards you, but all you have for him is a gaze that drops immediately, consciously working on not shrinking back into your seat. Two paws rest on your shoulders; Toriel’s, or Asgore’s, or both. You don’t look back to confirm.

“Their name is Chara,” Toriel tells him calmly. “Our child, and future monarch.”

You suppose it doesn’t matter what you think now. Your body locks itself up, and the rest of the conversation is a blur. Nobody is happy with it, by the end, but that’s all you know.

It’s very clear that you’re missing important information, but you can’t bring yourself to care There’s too much you’ve already missed, so what does it really matter? Voices buzz around you, and at some point, you’re put on your feet and steered through the building, past flashing lights and shouting, outside and to a car. The king and queen can’t fit, so it’s you, and Frisk, and Sans, piled into the back of a police car and driven over to a Country Western- some things never change, apparently.

Your companions shoot jokes back and forth like currency, and the staff is unerringly absent throughout all of this. You’re escorted to a room, and escorted to a bed, and when it comes time to slump down your eyes close but your mind refuses to click off. It ticks over, and over, and over, because you’re alive and your here and you never, ever, wanted to be.

You must have left Asriel down there, you suppose. To whatever end he wanted to be left, to the flowers he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off. The gravesite of a person who just wasn’t the greatest-

Exhale. Nice and slow and steady. You’re the only one in the room who hit a bed the moment you entered; Sans and Frisk are still talking. You focus only for the sake of focusing, to avoid the loud silence of your own mind.

“They’re okay.” Frisk is saying, and you want to ask; whom is okay? The humans? The monsters? _You?_ If it’s you, then you will laugh. You will laugh and laugh, and they can reiterate just how okay you are after you’ve been locked away, out of sight and mind.

“Really? Buddy, I’d hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your pal don’t seem okay.” Ah, the sceptical realist. You’d love to see the look he’s directing at them, right now. “They seem like they, uh, kinda died? A good while back? Figure’d that’s about as not okay as a human could be.”

“They’re okay,” They repeat, and you want to punch them. You’d get up and do it, but that would mean showing that you’ve been listening in. “They just need time.”

“You really _Chara_ about them, huh?”

Oh, he did not.

“They’re my _Dreemurr_ come true.”

You’re going to sleep.

 

You don’t actually go to sleep. The topic changes quite a few times over the course of the evening; Sans asks Frisk what they’re going to do, and they evade the question as gracefully as they’re capable of, before asking him the same. Evasion continues to be a trend. They speak of you, they speak of Toriel. Of the monsters still in the mountain and what they expect from the next few days, and the two of them are keyed in enough not to play games about it; they both expect it to be hard.

They don’t speak of themselves. You wonder if they ever will, or if that aspect to their relationship died, the very first time you stepped into **T** he **C** orridor. The first time he used Frisk’s blood as a fountain, turned their body into a grotesque, once living statue. Personally, you think his lack of trust is well deserved; just like your own. He tries to be the adult at some point, tells them to go to bed, and the mattress you’re lying on dips under a new weight as Frisk joins you, meeting your gaze evenly when you open your eyes.

The lights flick off. In the ensuing silence, you can’t tell if Sans is still here. Still, a lack of absolute certainty keeps you from speaking, even as Frisk pushes their hand across the mattress, takes your own. You let them have that, because your pain is their comfort.

Selfish.

“Tomorrow is going to be hard.” They whisper softly, and you let your eyes close, as if that’s enough to block them out.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

They come for you in the morning.

You suppose ‘come for you’ is somewhat dramatic. Rather, they come to visit, arriving whilst you’re in the midst of choking down a bowl of soggy cereal. Your stomach is protesting every single bite, but you know enough about the way life is to ignore it. You eat when the opportunity comes to you. You eat.

Frisk’s expression grows pinched at the sight of the woman leading the small group; you don’t like her from first sight, from the way her bun sits tightly atop her head to the fact that her skirt is so pencil thin, she seems to have trouble moving, but it’s your partner’s expression that cinches the deal. She smiles at you, and you smile back, because a smile from a human never means what it should.

She’s from the child protection authorities. They just want to ask you both a few questions.

“It’s important that we ensure your parents are aware you’ve been located; we’ll do our best to reunite you both with your families within the week.” She assures, and you smile.

“Do the king and queen know you’re here?” You ask politely, and the look on her face says- no. Haha, no, of course they don’t.

“I believe they’re busy at the moment; but your friend here-” She gestures off to the side, where Sans is already making a nuisance of himself with a slurry of puns at one strait-laced individual. You hate him more than Frisk, just for a fraction of a second. “Is going to sit in with us as we talk. Is that okay?”

No, it’s not. However, Frisk is already giving their consent with a curt nod, and you will- do that thing, where you comply with whatever stupid decision they’ve made, this time. Apparently, they want to speak to you both individually; Frisk is first, and you’re left to your cereal and your churning stomach for what seems like an eternity.

Just because it’s the day after doesn’t mean you’re any readier to face the music of your current situation. All the questions you should be thinking of, you don’t. You just eat your very soggy cereal. And then you get seconds.

You could get thirds, with how long this takes. In a brilliant compromise, you stuff your pockets full of dry cornflakes, idly counting them with your fingers as you wait. You lose count so many times you know the effort is futile, but still. It’s quieter than the silence of your head.

Eventually, it is your turn. They lead you away to one of the hotel’s conference rooms, and the long table looks utterly ridiculous when it’s occupied by just the one woman, and a skeleton. The woman (you don’t wish to designate her with a name, because that would imply acknowledging her) gestures for you to take a seat, and you can see the unerring stretch of her lips for what it is. Fake. Maybe that’s what you’ll call her, then. Fake.

Your cornflakes crunch in your pockets as you sit. Sans glances at you, but makes no comment.

“This will just be a short conversation today, Chara. Think of it like a chat between friends,” Fake simpers, and you smile, because it’s the only response you have. The notebook in front of her is covered in notes, and she flips over to a blank page before continuing, scrawling a single word at the top. Chara. “If it’s okay, I’d like to start with your name. It’s very unusual, isn’t it?”

“It’s my name.”

“And very pretty, might I add,” Can you hit her, now? “Is it short for something? Charlotte, perhaps?”

“Perhaps I’m out of the loop, but isn’t Charlotte a feminine name?” She looks taken aback. How nice.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Charles, then?”

“My preferred pronouns are they/them.” Fake’s brow furrows, and you watch dispassionately as her pen scratches across the paper. Sans looks like he’s fallen asleep.

“Then I’ll rephrase the question; when you were born, what name did your parents put on your birth certificate?”

“That would be difficult to answer, seeing as I never had one.”

“You never had one?”

“If I did, no one showed me.”

There’s a crease in her brow that wasn’t there before. You hope it’s a sign of irritation.

“Is Chara the name your parents call you at home?”

“No.”

“And what did they call you?”

“A horrific mistake, generally.”

There’s a pause, in which Sans lifts his head and Fake stops smiling. Your own never falters, uninclined to offer either of them the satisfaction of seeing you slip now. A hand slips into your pocket, pressing a cornflake between finger and thumb. The noise is very satisfying.

“...How about a different question, then,” She does her best to pull the smile back up, but it’s not working very well. It’s very unprofessional, considering that she must deal with similar cases all the time. “How old are you, Chara?”

“I don’t know.”

Scratch scratch, goes the pen.

“How long has it been since you fell into Mount Ebott?”

“I don’t know.”

The questioning continues along that vein for quite some time. She asks you where you grew up, brightening somewhat when you readily supply Mount Ebott. Faltering when you can’t provide the suburb, street name, or number. You can’t give her a phone number, either, or your parent’s names. You can’t describe them to her, and questions about your schooling are met with a shrug. Finally, the pen goes down.

“Chara, it’s very important that you trust me. Me, and everyone outside; we’re all here to help you.” She says it so gently, you think that perhaps, she actually believes what she’s saying.

Or you would think that, had she not already slipped up.

“And yet you’re here without the king and queen’s permission, even though they have already advised police they are my guardians,” Her pinched expression isn’t quite as good as Frisk’s, but you suppose it will do.

Pulling your hand out of your pocket, you dust the crumbs off on your sweater prior to bracing your elbows on the table, tone conversational. “As you said, they’re very busy at the moment, correct? That makes sense, if you’d rather not involve them in this process. If Frisk and I both originated from Mount Ebott, you could have our parents here within the day. They would have no legal right to take us from them, once collected. In fact, I imagine there are many, many parties relying on this scenario.”

You let that sink in, for a moment. Don’t look to the side, to where Sans is looking at you. Whether he’s impressed, or shocked, or suspicious is not the purpose of this. What’s important is Fake; the look on her face and the way her shoulders tighten. Caught out in her attempts to play Good Samaritan.

“If you’ve read the police report, then you would also know what status we hold for monsters. Their ambassador. Their future monarch. I would politely suggest you rethink the idea that monsters would take this crude attempt at denying them the right to care for human children lightly.”

You nod to yourself, standing without assistance. Threading your fingers behind your back, rather than allow her to think she has a right to reach out and shake your hand.

“I’d say these meetings are over, until the appropriate parties have been contacted.”

You smile.

“Thank you for your time, miss.”

When you return to the breakfast table, child services are very, very quick to leave. They thank all three of you for your time, and beneath the wood, Frisk takes your hand. Squeezes it hard.

They needed you for this, you think. This is not the type of selfish they’re capable of.

“Well,” Sans says dryly, once the three of you are alone. “That sure was something.”

Your smile gets pointed in his direction next, and he meets your gaze evenly, for all the droplets of magical exertion appearing on his skull. You think that he might be edging towards the side of caution, when it comes to you; it hardly matters. He has information you want.

“Where is a phone?”

 

* * *

 

In the coming weeks, you see Toriel and Asgore briefly. It’s clear that this is not what you want, and in the small windows of contact you have, you allow them to coddle you, resigned to the fact that there is nothing you can do about it. There are secrets that are not yours to share, and advising them that they’ve both killed you before opens the doorway to explanations from other parties.

Sans gets you a phone. How or where he gets it, you don’t ask, and he doesn’t supply. There’s a phonebook in your room, and that’s all you need to get in contact with practically every news station in the area, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by international sources. The interviews are gruelling and unsatisfactory- you leave every one with shaking hands, and spend your evenings in the cupboard beside the bar fridge. But the outcome is promising, when photographs of you, and Frisk, and the somewhat loving family Frisk has made for themself appear on the front of every newspaper, headlines crying out for the answer you want people to ask themselves.

**WILL GOVERNMENT TAKE ADOPTED CHILDREN AGAINST OWN WILL?**

You can’t see it, of course. But you’re willing to bet that the internet says no.

Neither of you have another talk with child services.

 

* * *

 

A month after you reach the surface, monsters are approved to leave Mt Ebott. Arrangement after arrangement is made, and the most you or Frisk really know about it comes from the television. Caravan distributors across the nation have donated camper after camper, a veritable city of them to accommodate the coming influx of the monster population, and a shoddy city of sorts is settled onto the base of the mountain itself; on land bought out from farmers with monster gold, a new, new home.

No actual name of the area is forthcoming.

Most of your time has been spent in the hotel; going outside means dealing with reporters, and when you aren’t in your room, you’re eating cereal in the kitchen, or making a nuisance of yourself with Frisk. The two of you find out more about your location than you think is appropriate (or legal), but no one is around to tell you otherwise, usually. You’re almost sorry to see it go; that quiet, enormous building that you’d practically had to yourself, and you wish whoever cleans your room luck, as you can’t quite remember how many places you’d utilized for storing food.

The small backpack on your lap is stuffed full of clothes resting over what non-perishables you could get your hands on. Frisk’s bag, as bulky and heavy as your own, is the same. An unspoken agreement between the two of you that, if you must exist, you will at least not starve.

Undyne is the one to meet your car at the gates, fanged grin earning a smile that’s slightly less ingenuous from yourself. She’d earned herself some points last week, when she’d proved the perfect partner in crime for mattress surfing. The stairs had been begging for it- the mattress could be replaced.

“Alright, punks?” Points are taken away when she ruffles your hair, but Frisk gains the same treatment. “We’ve got a lot of press about today, so I’m gonna be your bodyguard for a bit. First thing; let’s go check out your new digs!”

She takes both your bags under one arm as she walks, speaking rapidly all the while. Most of the others about the place are human; electricians taping wires to the ground. In the distance, you can see multiple large machines working away; digging up a trench that will lead down the mountain to the lake, she explains.

None of this is enough to accommodate the entire population of monsters- but it’s a start. Over the coming months, those remaining in the mountain will dwindle down in numbers, until there’s only one.

You’re trying not to think about him. Toriel and Asgore’s attempt to broach the subject had been met with a short “I know”, before you’d left the room entirely. No one has brought him up since. No one is going to be thinking of him today.

The royal family gets three campervans, apparently. Right in the middle of ‘town’, next to an area overhung with tarps and two thrones; already moved down from New Home. The two, smaller chairs on either side are for you and Frisk, you imagine, and you feel sick at the implications. Little monarchs. The future of humans and monsters.

Your new ‘quarters’ are the lap of luxury. Your own living room, your own kitchen; it’s real wood on the floor, and real marble on the benchtops. The humans are looking to impress, you think, and you wonder if every campervan you’ve seen holds up to the same standards.

There’s two beds. Undyne places your packs down, one on the left, one on the right- and when she leaves to allow you both space to change, Frisk corrects the issue by putting their pack next to your own. You suppose you aren’t upset about that.

What is upsetting rests in the wardrobe, a deep, vibrant purple, delta rune lovingly stitched over the chest. Frisk isn’t expected to wear the same, just you. You’re the one who puts on the purple robes, this morning’s cereal creeping up into the back of your throat as you feel the skirts brush over your ankles. Nobody will be the wiser if you leave your pants on, so you do.

It makes you feel somewhat less of a doll on display, but only somewhat. Frisk gets to make do with a black jacket that has the crest stitched into its lapel. They make a face at you, and you make one back. The human addition of implied gender norms is all too apparent in your outfits, and you don’t have to imagine that they feel as displaced by that as you. You know they do.

“It’s just one day.” They tell you, and you nod jerkily, pretending that they don’t possibly know that for certain. That brief sense of comradeship fizzles and dies, and you pull them over to the mirror so you can attack their hair and try to make it sit reasonably neater than usual.

The plan for today, for the next five or six or twelve hours, is for you to be there, as the monsters arrive at their new home. For you and Frisk to stand with Asgore and Toriel to welcome your people, though when you both take your places and prepare to do just that, you feel out of place.

Your revival is undoubtedly a story well known, at this point. That is the only connection any of these people have to you- a story. A lie about who you were and where your loyalties lay, the unfortunately ill human. None of them will ever know the truth, of that you’re certain, and that thought alone makes the last month feel like a trial run.

Today, you finally slip into the role Frisk has given you full time. You will once again be-

You are the future of humans and monsters.

They come in a wave that doesn’t stop. You recognize the families, and the individuals and you smile and murmur quiet words when necessary, and people look to you with something akin to awe in their eyes. They make gestures and signs, they bow- Frisk is greeted like a friend. Toriel and Asgore with respect, but- as friends.

You are an anomaly. You can feel the gap between you and the race you’d once found home with growing wider and wider, smile frozen on your face, cheeks burning. Eyes burning.

Someone nudges you in the stomach. You flinch reflexively, even when the child bounces back up, looking to you with a toothy grin that shifts into something like concern.

“Yo, Frisk? I don’t think your friend is doing so good.” You recognize them, of course. You’ve spent a good amount of time with this child, both you and Frisk. They like Undyne, or they did, before Undyne did something they didn’t approve of. She’s not the greatest person either, and that’s more- that’s more points in her favour, then.

Frisk leans into your periphery, drawing a blank look from you as they slowly reach out, and touch your cheek.

It’s wet.

“You’re crying.” They tell you, as if that hadn’t immediately become obvious, and you start to laugh before you can help yourself.

Undyne leads you away, and you spend the rest of the afternoon in your caravan, hiding under the bed. After she looks quietly into the room a few times, everything goes quiet. Nobody else comes.

Everyone’s a little too busy for your nonsense, right now.

 

* * *

 

It really does appear that no one else had the time to check your new residency out in full, because when you go through the kitchen on that one, lonely night, there are knives in the drawers.

You take every single one, and hide them across the apartment. Considering and reconsidering all the places Frisk might hide their own things, and relocating them where appropriate. You have six of them now, six knives.

What are you going to do with them, you wonder?

Monster Kid- just Kid, because the monster is redundant, becomes a frequent visitor to the blank window of your life. They’re not the greatest themself, honestly; their opinions tend to be hypocritical, and they like to change opinions to match Frisk’s where relevant, but they’re company. They’re young enough and stupid enough that you can’t blame them for treating you the way they do, and you think that this is probably as close to fond as you’ll ever allow yourself to be.

“Yo, um… don’t you ever want to go outside?” They ask you, sprawled out on the spare bed that may as well be theirs, since they’re the only one that uses it. You let your head lull to the side, regarding them with a blank look that the child is smart enough to take as your answer. “I mean sure! You go out when like, your parents need you, and to talk to people, but- dude, I wanna explore! Don’t you guys want to explore?”

Appealing to your better half; smart kid. Another turn of your head- to your opposite side, where Frisk is upright and squinting down at a tiny screen of some console you haven’t bothered to learn the name of. It’s probably Nintendo.

Your better half looks back at you eventually, a considering look that ends with a short; “We could”, and it’s decided. Off you go, to adventure.

Sunlight is still an uncomfortable sensation. The world is a much busier place now, and when you step outside, it doesn’t go unnoticed. Every ‘street’ you walk down, you gain attention; bows and curtseys and things akin to that, Frisk’s hand as tight about your wrist as it was when this all began. You slap up a smile and keep pace with them, the third addition to your party tripping up on their own feet more often than not. Also to be expected.

“Hey, check this out!” They exclaim, racing ahead of you both as you reach the edge of ‘town’. What you’re checking out, you suppose, is the wide, rolling fields that surround you; long grass and patches of flowers going as far as the eye can see, until they reach the edge of the forest that surrounds the mountain’s edge. “Isn’t this cool? Like, there’s so much _space!_ ”

“Amazing,” You answer dryly, but to them, it is amazing. Space. Sunlight. Grass. They don’t interest you at all, but to someone who’s never seen them, they must be fascinating. Frisk nods in agreement, and Kid wiggles in glee, promptly finding a ditch to trip into, and laughing all the while.

You all decide upon a game of tag. Or rather, Frisk gives your hand a squeeze and loudly proclaims their intentions, dashing away before you can retaliate. You stare after them for a few moments, body heavy and chest full of resentment, but there’s nothing else you can do. You’re it.

Kid is the easiest target, and thus, you target them appropriately. Dashing through the meadows grass, feeling strands of scratchy brown whiskers whipping against your palms as you do so. Your stamina isn’t great, and within minutes, you’re well and truly out of breath; but you’re also not it, dancing away and hedging around hollows and dips in the earth hidden beneath greens and browns, like the cheat you are.

Frisk doesn’t so much get caught as they are tackled, and their own hollers join Kid’s as the two go tumbling down a slight incline, clothes completely askew as they spring up and away, slapping Kid on the head. You lose the tension that sits in your shoulders when Kid’s only response is to yell about how unfair that is, and for a while, you’re left to keep pace with them as they get lost to the game of slapping and headbutting each other.

They’re both giggling. At some point, so are you, you figure. Maybe five, ten minutes, half an hour of forgetting. Three kids running about under the sun, and your skin is so prone to it that you know you’ll be pink for days afterwards, but you don’t mind nearly as much as you should. It’s only inevitable that you take your own series of tumbles at some point, and you think nothing of it when your knee stings after picking yourself up for the third time.

You keep running along until the city of caravans is a mere speck in the distance, and you’re almost certain that if Sans hadn’t just decided to nap against that particular fence line, you all would have kept going. If you had, you’re certain you never would have gone back.

Perhaps, in a wildly spontaneous manner, you would have just kept chasing the sun. Not quite admonished, you all turn back away; shoulder to shoulder, bumping each other now and then as Frisk tells puns and you pitch in with a few less appropriate ones, and Kid giggles and exclaims over the both of you. They take your hand in their own, and you squeeze it back, and feel- okay. You feel okay.

Toriel greets you upon your return, teasing you by plucking a few flyaway pieces of grass out of your hair. She seems pleased with both of you all the same, gently suggesting a shower and ushering all three of you towards just that. You collect a change of clothes, cheeks absent of any ache; the face that greets you in the mirror is neutral, and you don’t like it, but you dislike it far less than the usual smile.

When you kick your pants away, your knee is coated in white dust.

You still, staring down it for some time, before fumbling to turn on the shower and stumbling into it. The gritty substance washes away readily enough, leaving slightly pink, healthy skin behind, and you stare, and you stare, and you haven’t washed at all by the time Frisk (you assume, because Kid would have to slam their head against the door, and you can’t see Frisk allowing that) knocks on the door.

The clean clothes are shoved on roughly, and you vacate the tiny space without a word.

 

* * *

 

You have nightmares, most nights. Or rather, you have nightmares fairly consistently, if Frisk doesn’t wake you whilst they thrash about in the grips of their own. You two have a system, by this point; one of you steals a few hours’ sleep, and the other waits, ready to wake the other before screams can alert the adults. Some nights, you make it harder by seeing fit to cram yourself in the smallest space possible before drifting off- some nights Frisk is a little slow at getting to you.

A good portion of your nightmares involve the town close by. A good portion involve Asriel. All your dreams involve dust in some form, coating your fingers and your clothes as you run for your life, or others run for _their lives._

Dust. White, dust. Gritty in consistency, it gives way easily when you slog your way through Waterfall, never holding a strong enough consistency to turn to much when it touches the water.

It’s supper time. The weather is nice enough that most set themselves up in front of their campers to eat, and your family- Frisk’s family, is no different. Most nights, Undyne sees fit to join you, Papyrus following in her wake. Sans following his brother. Alphys sometimes makes an appearance, when she’s not doing what she does best. Sitting on her bed and feeling like garbage, most like.

“Coming?” Frisk asks you, holding the door open.

“In a minute,” You respond calmly- calm. Serene. They opt to shrug at you, door clattering shut behind them, and leaving you to your own devices. Privacy assured, you take out one of your knives; the use of which was inevitable, really. You always did like to Christen things with the taste of your own blood.

Five minutes, before you step out of the caravan. Everyone is seated, and eating, and happy. No one looks up as you make your way towards them, no one notices at first. Until Frisk pauses, a ‘dog halfway to their lips, and you smile, and point the knife at them.

“What did you do to me?”

And everything, already muted and oh so distant, goes as quiet as the grave.

Ha ha.

 _Chara, please_ , someone says. _Put down the knife,_ says another. And you laugh, great wheezing gasps that have your cheeks stretching painfully as Frisk stands, reaching out for you. Because they need you. Because they’re so selfish.

You slice open the palm of your hand, and everyone is moving, but you don’t care, now. If they take the knife, if someone’s picking up. You just hold out your hand, and you keep asking Frisk that question- you keep asking, as white dust coats your palm and filters through the air like powdered sugar, and you _don’t **bleed,** and you don’t **Bleed.**_

“Where is he? Where is he, Frisk, _what did you do to him-_ ”

“Chara, please calm down!”

“ _What did you do to me?! What did you do,_ ” Humans are so selfish, and you should have known that Frisk would be the worst of them. You should have known. _“I hate you! I **hate** you!_ ”

You continue yelling it, even after you’re carried out of sight.

 

They eventually get you to stop screaming. Eventually.

What’s left over after the initial burst is an empty sort of numb, sitting still as Toriel fixes your palm, as they bandage your hand despite the fact the wound is gone. You’re placed in a bed (not your bed) and you stare at the wall for minutes, or hours, or days. It doesn’t matter.

“Chara, my love… please,” Toriel tries. And she’ll keep trying like this, throughout the entire night. “Tell me what ails you. I am here.”

You keep your silence.

As time passes, the shadows creep over the walls with the moonlight shining through the tiny window. The shifting contrasts dance ever so slowly across your hands, pasty whites to deep greys.

But they’re not your hands. They’re not your hands. You’re not human.

That much has never been a surprise. You were never human; but you still bled.

Not anymore.

You feel

Like an idiot, because you decided this. You decided not to know what they were conversing about, one more time, in that place. You didn’t want to know. It feels like asking for something a little too late now, yet the idea rattles about your head with enough force to leave it pounding. How. How. How.

Where is Asriel? They were just talking to Asriel.

Some things aren’t worth answering.

 

* * *

 

They’re going to separate you. Toriel advises you as much in the morning, the blunted claws on the tips of her paws running through your care with gentle care, and you shrug her off and away as you tell her- yes, fine, whatever. Good. It’s likely that half the city had heard you last night; and those who hadn’t would already know of your great slip; the _future of humans and monsters_ coming at the monster ambassador with a knife; _how shocking. How awful._

You’re surprised Frisk hasn’t bothered to RESET, yet. Because they must know, now. They must know that whatever it was they wanted you for, you’re not longer here for it. You’re no longer here for them.

You were supposed to follow them to the utmost. But you must admit, you’re not feeling it anymore. They aren’t there when Undyne escorts you to collect your things, and they aren’t there when you leave. As it stands, the single kindness of the whole situation is knowing you don’t have to be around any of them, not really. Undyne is your new bunk buddy until further notice, and you wonder if it’s grating to her, to know she’s now on babysitting duty.

Her camper is not as nice as yours. What a surprise. Still, there’s room for you both, and she offers you the bedroom, things already moved to the couch.

Dumping your things onto the bed, you crawl beneath it, and that’s where you stay.

You don’t eat.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t talk, though there’s plenty of people willing to talk at you. Toriel tries her hand multiple times a day, always telling you how much she’s missed you, that she wishes they had been capable of responding to your return differently- that they had been there, when it was clear, now, that you had needed them. Asgore is too big to fit in the bedroom, but he sits outside the window for a while, and reads you a book.

They don’t seem to understand that what you need, right now, is time to think. About what it is you want to do, how to progress from here. You’re tired, and your stomach aches in a way that has your breathing going thin and your eyesight narrowing on occasion, but you just need to think.

You need to consider all your options, just to make sure that whatever it is you do, it’s something Frisk cannot fix. A retaliation that they can never come back from, and when your head is clear enough to think of it, you know what to do.

You make a request, and they make one back. After a shower, and food, they’re more than willing to give you what you want.

You and Sans go for a walk in the meadow.

It is… a truly beautiful day, outside.

The skeleton has apparently been schooled in the concept of effort, it seems. He keeps pace with you as you walk, bony fingers shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes on the sun. You half hope he’ll do something as stupid as walking right into a ditch- _the weakest enemy,_ killed off by a bump in the road, but that would be far too easy.

“So,” He starts, nodding his head off to the side; you follow his gaze, down to the patch of golden flowers peeking out of the undergrowth. “Heard you had a real thing for those flowers.”

“I did,” You reply, honestly enough. A stone catches against your shoe, and you kick it up, watching it fly several feet away, before disappearing into the grass. “They were the only thing I really enjoyed, on the Surface.”

“Past tense, huh?” You nod, and the silence stretches on for another hundred feet. You could use that time to enjoy the sights around you, you suppose. The look of the long grass when the wind catches it; but why bother?

The only day the world had seemed truly beautiful to you was the day you walked up that mountain.

Sans seems tired. That’s not as unusual as you pretend it is.

“What do you want, kid?” Under other circumstances, you would play the field, for a while. Reject the notion of an agenda to all of this, except this is not other circumstances. He’d watched you pull a knife on his favourite kid, a few days ago- you’re both past the point of pretending there isn’t a reason for this. That the child who’d done their best to avoid him where possible had suddenly, and without warning, taken a liking to him, after an emotional breakdown involving a knife and slicing open their own skin.

You get to the point.

“Do you know how many times the world has been RESET?” It’s a hypothetical question, really. The only response required is the one he gives you; a flickering of the lights in his eye sockets, a look that could chill you to the bone. “Because if I had to take a stab in the dark, I’d say… somewhere close to fifty. Complete ones; the ones that go right back to the start.”

“Pretty astute, for someone who’s been dead.” He observes, and you laugh. Short and flat- the sound cuts off before you’re even ready to answer.

“If only.”

Grass crunches underfoot; both his and your own, neither willing to stop walking. If anything, you feel rather removed from the situation at large, as if observing it all from a great distance. You, walking along. Sans, keeping pace beside you. You’re supposed to be leading the conversation, and yet, you feel adrift. Barely there at all.

If only. If only.

“Always wondered, why they seemed to know you so well. Not like they’d known you- what? An hour or two?” Sans rumbles away at your side, piecing it all together. And you think, ‘ _how good_ ’. “It was like, I dunno. They’d known you all their life, or somethin’. Real good chums.”

He looks to you now, and from that distant space, you’re almost surprised, that the lights are still there. Still directed at you, as if it hasn’t all clicked enough. As if he’s still playing at being dumb, like he doesn’t get the implications of your understanding. Discussing RESETS like the weather.

“Kind of makes a guy wonder, though, what kind of chum brings you back from the dead, and doesn’t give you a little nudge about the whole, swapping species shtick.”

“We aren’t friends,” A whisper, barely felt, never mind heard. “We’ve never been friends. I was an unwelcome addition to the party. An anomaly- that’s what you called it, right?”

You stop. You stop, and you turn to him, offering a hand, and your lips pull into a smile.

“Hello, sir. I’m the anomaly. The malevolent half.”

“...Alright, sure. Real cute.” He actually laughs a bit, shaking his head. But his hands stay in his pockets, and your own gets ignored. “C’mon, kiddo. We don’t have all day here. What do you want?”

“I want to die,” You inform him. His eye lights finally recede, barely discernible in the empty black that swallows them. “I want to know that regardless of what Frisk tries; if they RESET, if they try to smooth this over, you know. You know that I am the thing from the corridor, that I was the one that left a trail of dust in the Underground. That I killed your bro-”

“ **O k a y.** Okay, I got the message here.” He exhales (for the first time on this walk), long and slow, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his skull, collecting the excess amount of perspiration gathering there. “So, here’s the thing- I ain’t gonna do that.”

“What.”

“I said I’m not doing it. Sorry to disappoint.” Anger cleaves through some of that distance, raw and heady, and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a step forwards in challenge.

“I’ll kill you.”

“See, that’s not gonna cut-”

“I’ll kill everyone.”

“Kid, you need to slow your roll-”

“I’ll kill _everyone you love!_ ”

“Okay.”

Your head snaps to the side. Blinking out across your surroundings, it takes a moment to place it; the sting to your cheek in the wake of

He slapped you.

“We’re gonna take a moment to reassess here, alright?”

He _slapped you._

“Hey, that’s a pretty nice looking tree. How about we park a seat?”

What the hell.

He walks away from you, calm as he pleases, and you’re left to stare incredulously at the bumbling form of an idiot skeleton, chasing after him with every intent of being the hound at his heels.

“Did you not hear me?! I’ll kill them all!”

“Yeah, no, definitely got that part.”

“And you’re just going to park a seat, is that it?”

“Yeah, pretty sure I just said that,” He glances back, winking at you, and you’re too disgusted to think about how he manages to fully express that particular function. “You copying me now? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t patronize me.” You snap. True to his word, he takes a seat the moment he’s in the shade; slumping right down onto his back, looking up at you and patting the earth by his side. You just- you told him, quite bluntly, that you’d killed everyone. And he’s acting like you’re some sort of toddling bumpkin.

You ‘park a seat’. What else are you supposed to do?

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why won’t you kill me?”

“Uh, aside from the fact that that’d be, y’know, regicide?” Giving you one last look, he lets his eyes shut. Completely at peace with you sitting barely a foot away, half ready to give clocking him with your fist a valiant effort. “Guess I’m not feeling it.”

Breathe. The beat of your heart is practically painful, and you work at unclenching your fists, stewing over the statement. Of course. He wants this timeline to stay; of course he won’t risk it for your sake.

Sans is the last person you would ever put your hopes into, but you can’t help feeling let down. He just seems to have that effect on people.

You have to try again.

“I would have killed everyone and left it at that, you know.” A pause, and he hums, just to let you know he’s listening. “It didn’t matter; mattered less, the more we went on. Me and Frisk; we were both willing. We both wanted you gone. All of you. This timeline; any timeline, you’ll never be safe. It wouldn’t even be hard; all I have to do is tell the humans you’re all horrible, evil creatures, and-”

“And you haven’t yet, huh?” He really needs to stop interrupting you. “Weird. Kind of seems like the type of plan someone would take, y’know, a month ago, if they were serious.”

“What difference does it make? I’m telling you this now.”

“The difference is that you stuck it out a month, kid. I gotta be honest with you- it’s pretty interesting, watching you about the place. That lady you spoke to that one time? Now that was freaky. She went right behind everyone’s backs, probably could’ve gotten Frisk taken away, but you… yeah, see, that’s the you I’d be scared of,” He cracks an eye socket one, grins up at you, like that’s not his default expression. “The one that doesn’t make idle threats. The kid sitting in the dirt with me? They aren’t going to kill anyone.”

You should be laughing, really. It’s ridiculous enough to deserve it, but- the laughter just doesn’t come. Your fingers twitch; overwhelmed with the urge to touch something, you pluck at the grass, ripping it from the soil piece by piece.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Maybe. But then again, we wouldn’t even be here, if you two hadn’t decided not to kill anyone this time. Isn’t that right?” He’s not really asking you. It’s a hypothetical question, geared towards gaining an answer from the increasingly sour look on your face. “Look. The way I see it… you really wanna know what I think? Really mull that one over, buddy; I figure you know how it goes.”

Some things you can never unlearn, and all that jazz.

“...Just don’t tell the other Chara’s.” You respond, and he snorts at you, lifting his middle finger in a gesture you know very well.

“You really are a freak, aren’t you?” A sigh. Sans takes his time after that; sits himself up and pulls a bottle of ketchup out of nowhere, flicks off the cap and let’s it fall to the ground. When there’s zero effort to tidy up after himself, you pick it up, pushing the tips of your fingers into the edges of the metal. “The way I look at it is something like this; so, the Barrier’s down, Frisk’s off wandering through the Underground, saying goodbye to all their friends. And we’re all having a good time, you know? Some good friends, some bad laughs- could’ve done better, but food wasn’t really on anyone’s mind.”

“And then the kid shows up with another one in tow. Real pasty like; looks about ready to faint. And Tori? She about loses her _goat_ then and there; starts crying about her kid, pulls ‘em into her arms like she’s never gonna let go. And this kid, you know what they do? They start crying too.”

“So it’s all just this emotional hug fest for a while, ‘cept when she puts the kid down, and everyone gets introduced, they start acting twitchy. Every time someone touches ‘em, they just kind of- shut down. Never touch for too long, not even their ma, and when Frisk takes their hand again I woulda sworn it was some kind of torture, ‘cept this kid? They don’t let go.”

“For some reason, they keep holding onto that hand, and when Asgore- the king, I mean, makes a pretty senseless request, they argue. Even when Frisk says yes, they pull ‘em away and they keep arguing, and I think to myself ‘maybe they just aren’t happy that their friend is getting the short end of the stick. Maybe they’re a bit mad, that the adults are piling all that responsibility on a kid’s shoulders.”

“Then I remember this same kid used to go by another name. The future of humans and monsters… something like that. And I’m pretty sure, at that point, that they are pretty angry about it. I’m pretty sure they start putting up with a lot of shit, because they don’t want that kid to be alone. Maybe like how they used to feel, you get me?”

 

You tell a joke.

The joke is that, once upon a time, a kid came back from the dead, and everyone was actually kind of happy about that. And the kid smiled and played pretend, and apparently, they weren’t exactly _perfect_ at it, but the lie still held true, and you convinced everyone around you that the reason you kept at it was because you cared.

You should be laughing, now. So funny.

Why aren’t you laughing?

“I’m not sure, but- you know, Tori’s given us all a few hints, here and there. About how sleeping under the bed or hoarding food is kind of normal, for you. Kind of how hoarding food is normal for Frisk. You don’t like being touched; I don’t think anyone’s ever seen you without bags under your eyes. You’re a wreck, kid. And you come up to me and say I gotta kill you, cause you’re the danger? Buddy, you got it the wrong way around.”

Sans pauses to take a swig of his ketchup, and you watch quietly. Almost tunnel vision, but not. The faintest of hums in your ears, muting out the rest of the world. Everything he says comes in painful clarity.

“You scared a lot of people the other night, but you know, something I’ve noticed? You’re a smart kid. I’m pretty sure you knew you had one good shot at using that knife, but the only one you used it on was yourself. You wanted answers, ‘cause- hell, who wouldn’t want answers, about something like that? Pretty sure we all have a few questions about what happened to you, and there ain’t no shame in that. You get me?”

You don’t get him. He seems to realize that, however, holding out a hand for his bottle cap, waiting patiently until it’s returned.

“Now, I’m no scientist, and I- uh, no offense here, kid, but I’m not about to be your guidance counsellor, either. But I figure someone’s gotta tell you at some point; you got every reason to be scared, right now. The only problem with that ain’t you going off and killing everyone. The problem’s that no one’s ever taught you to put on the proverbial brakes,” Cap screwed on tight, the ketchup goes away, disappearing into the ether that is his hoodie before a newly freed hand rests itself on your shoulder. “Give yourself a break, kid. Death ain’t the answer here.”

You sniff.

“Aw, fuck-”

And it’s hilarious how quickly that easy going attitude disappears in the wake of you crying. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with you then, awkwardly patting your back as you (rather shamefully) bawl like a five-year-old- howl out your losses and unwanted gains with only one person the wiser for it. He mumbles a few dozen things, a good portion of those curses, and then he picks you up and takes a shortcut back home.

Which is… possibly, an okay thing for him to have down. For every reservation you have, Toriel is a much softer barrier against the rest of the world as you let your head fall into her chest, and give into every overwhelming sense of failure that’s haunted you from the moment you woke up.

 

* * *

 

Things don’t just simply get better. The one relief from your embarrassing display is the exhaustion you succumb to afterwards; you sleep for eighteen hours, or so Undyne cheerfully informs you, before having a very late breakfast with her and most of the members of the Canine Unit. The day is easy, and quiet- or not quiet, as you spend most of it playing with the dogs, but your mind leaves you alone for the most part, and Toriel is there to greet you in the evening, gentle and warm and oh so careful. If she knows what you wanted to speak to Sans about, she makes no indication of it, but-- everyone is a little more gentle with you, over the next few days.

Asgore recruits you to help him plot out a new garden; though he only gains your consent after he promises- no golden flowers. It’s an activity that requires sunlight for you to work, and part of you considers the fact that he’s taking a few hours with you each day, instead of doing his job. It’s not proper for a king… but he’s never been a great king, if you had to be honest. Potentially it’s for the best, that he wastes his time on you and allows Toriel to handle the politics.

It also means being out in the sun, for hours at a time. Your skin wouldn’t have been happy with you for that, once upon a time; but you note on the first evening that now, there’s no changes. You simply… don’t burn. How something so positive can make you feel so ill, you’ll never understand. Or perhaps, you do, and you just don’t want to acknowledge it.

The work is good, semi-meaningful. Asgore and Toriel have already decided that work on proper housing goes to those who need it most, meaning that, for the time-being, the Royal Family will be staying put in their trailers. The garden they’re constructing can hopefully be built into the inner courtyard, Asgore tells you, when plans for a New, New Home are under draft.

You hope that Toriel gets to name the city.

Most of what needs to be done is tilling the soil. The sectioned off piece of land Asgore has chosen is thick with grasses, hiding heavy stones and even an old piece of farming equipment you spend hours fussing over, treating the space around it like an archaeological dig site for the hell of it. Digging it all up is tedious, and that’s what takes up most of your time and your thoughts, past idle conversations with Asgore and anyone else who feels like following up, after your…

After everything.

Surprisingly, Sans is one of those people.

For the moment, it’s just you and Asgore. The two of you spend a good half hour considering the pros and cons of having sectioned out areas for lavender, before the both of you fall into an almost content silence. Even with the sun overhead, it reminds you of better times. You’re slowly learning not to feel bitter, every time you’re hit with the sensation of nostalgia.

“Chara,” Asgore calls to you. “Could I request your assistance for a moment?”

“Sure.” Leaving your shovel speared into the ground, you wander over to him, squinting down at his cupped paws. Said paws are extremely dirty, as in… covered in dirt. Mostly due to the fact that he is cupping a mound of dirt in his hands, a small protrusion of shoots poking out from the mess.

“Do you know what this flower is called?” His rumbling tone is full of kindness, the same tone that had given you strength a long time ago; the strength necessary to concede a lack of knowledge with a shake of your head. “Asters. Pretty, and very abundant. So much so that they often struggle to survive, as they do not give themselves the room to grow.”

A low, pondering hum of a sound. You don’t quite understand the look he’s giving you, but there’s a twisting sensation in your stomach that says he’s talking more about you than the flowers.

“When a gardener separates them, I believe this method is called dividing.”

“And here I thought plants were better off staying in the ground.” You duck your head a moment later, biting the inside of your cheek. Perhaps a little too forward. Asgore chuckles in response.

“This is true; however, in order to help them to grow… a helping paw can always move them to better soils.” Yes, he’s definitely talking about you. Asgore makes a gesture, and when you hold out your hands, a bulb is placed inside them. A few protruding leaves, a tiny root system. No flowers, not at this time of year, but it is distinctly an entire flower you’re holding up, leaving you pondering over how easy would be, to destroy it now before it has the chance to grow.

Not… not that you’d want to.

“Perhaps we could put them in a pot, until later. Then we can plant them in the garden.”

“I think this would be an excellent strategy.” Asgore says approvingly, and even though you can no longer get burnt under the rays of the sun, your cheeks feel warm anyway.

You wonder, as you pat dirt around the tiny bulb, and Asgore goes to fetch a pail of water, what happens when you want to reunite the asters, instead of tearing them apart.

 

* * *

 

It’s fairly obvious that Frisk isn’t expecting your company. They’ve been a bit of a slob in your absence (some of the cookie packets strewn about are likely from your stash, and you admit, you’re a little irritated about that), and it’s almost painful, that one of the first things you note about them is the fact that they’re sitting on the second bed; the one neither of you had been using at all. Your bed is neat, and you suspect it hasn’t been slept in, not since you’ve left.

They look tired. They also look surprised, and that expression gains greater precedence when you not only enter the bedroom, but sit down at the foot of the bed. The one that’s already occupied.

“...It seems slightly off, that you’re the one who wound up grounded.” They shrug, putting down their Gameboy (which likely isn’t a Gameboy at all, but you can’t be expected to understand technology, anymore) and giving you their full attention.

“It’s okay. They tried to get Alphys to tell me about… ethics. She wasn’t very comfortable.”

You can’t help but scoff. “I’ll bet she wasn’t.”

And then it’s silent. You both spend some time observing each other; the fact that you can without looking into a mirror still feels somewhat odd, but the bite of it, the all too loud silence in your mind; it isn’t as bad as it used to be. Frisk is gaining some weight, you note. They fill out their clothes better, cheeks almost beginning to look natural on their face, instead of two swollen blobs glued to the sides of their skull. Positive changes, you reflect. Positive changes are welcome right now.

“...I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Frisk says carefully. You purse your lips for a moment, allowing yourself to feel the dull ache in your chest.

“I don’t forgive you. But having had time to consider it, I do… understand, why you didn’t want to tell me.” Dropping your gaze to your sleeve, you pluck at the material absently. You no longer have the ability to hurt yourself, not without putting your life at risk every single time, but your arms still bear the marks of your history, and you’re not ready to share that with the world, yet. “He’s gone, isn’t he? Asriel.”

“Yes,” They say without hesitation, and that’s the part that hurts the most; the utter certainty in which they confirm that he’s really- before leaning over and placing their hand on the mattress, still a ways off from you, but reaching out. “I had your SOUL, and he- he wanted you to be here, too.”

“But we could have both been,” You reason. The act of being reasonable at all is enough to make your hands shake, and you collect them into your lap, curl them into fists. “He could have been here with us; even if I was still- you know. It could have worked.”

“We tried. And you- Asriel and you, you weren’t happy. If we told him, if we didn’t. He couldn’t be up here, and he always… he found a way to leave.”

“So this is it, then. This was your solution, to just- give him up.” This would have been his body, if you hadn’t taken it. The nostalgia behind that is exceptionally bitter, except this time, there’s no one else in your head to comment on it. Not Frisk, and not him.

“He decided it.” Frisk corrects you, and you laugh. Quietly, and with little energy to it. He decided. Of course he did.

“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you.”

They shrug, apparently willing to accept that much, and you take a deep breath before meeting their gaze.

“So what now?”

“Everyone starts building. In three months… I don’t know anymore. We never got that far.”

Ah, life and its mysteries. You’d forgotten what that was like, to not know what was coming. These past six weeks had been a painful learning curve. It’s almost funny to consider that Frisk is in the same boat.

“We can do it,” They murmur softly, so soft you almost don’t hear it. “If we work together, then anything is possible, right?”

Humans are selfish. Frisk may be the most selfish person you’ve ever met; and they need you.

You can’t quite promise that you’ll follow them to the utmost, anymore. They are capable of terrible things; things that you and everyone else may never know- and when you do know, you almost wish you didn’t. Mostly wish you didn’t.

But some kinds of plants need to be divided in order to grow. Sometimes you need to put on the proverbial brakes, and sometimes- you need distance. You need time to think, in order to retaliate in a manner Frisk can’t fix, or to fix in a manner that…

Maybe you’re not quite at the stage of fixing, yet. How about inviting the possibility of a stalemate, instead?

Reaching over, you rest your hand on top of their own.

“We’ll figure it out.”

  

 

 

You know. If you’re lucky.


End file.
